"Come here, my little girl," he said, "and tell me what you want."

Flower would have hated any one else to speak of her as a little girl, but she pushed back her hair now, and looked with less hesitation and more longing at the Doctor.

"I thought you'd be here--I ventured to come," she said.

"Yes, yes; there's no venturing in the matter. Take my arm, and walk up and down with me."

"May I, really?"

"Of course you may, puss. Now I'll warrant anything you have walked many a carpet bare with your own father. See! this is almost in holes; those are Polly's steps, these are mine."

"Oh--yes--well, father isn't that sort of man. I'll take your arm if I may, Doctor. Thank you. I didn't think--I don't exactly know how to say what I want to say."

"Take time, my dear child; and it is no matter how you put the words."

"When I heard that there was no mother here, I did not want to stay long. That was before I knew you. Now--I came to say it--I do want to stay, and so does David."

"But you don't really know me at all, Flower."

"Perhaps not really; but still enough to want to stay. May I stay?"

Flower's charming face looked up inquiringly.

"May I stay?" she repeated, earnestly. "I do wish it!--very much indeed."

Dr. Maybright was silent for a moment.

"I was thinking about this very point when you knocked at the door," he said, presently. "I was wondering if you two children could stay. I want to keep you, and yet I own I am rather fearful of the result. You see, there are so many motherless girls and boys in this house."

"But we are motherless, too; you should be sorry for us; you should wish to keep us."

"I am very sorry for you. I have grown to a certain extent already to love you. You interest me much; still, I must be just to you and to my own children. You are not a common, everyday sort of girl, Flower. I don't wish to flatter you, and I am not going to say whether you are nice or the reverse. But there is no harm in my telling you that you are out of the common. It is probable that you may be extremely difficult to manage, and it is possible that your disposition may--may clash with those of some of the members of my own household. I don't say that this will be the case, mind, only it is possible. In that case, what would you expect me to do?"

"To keep me," said Flower, boldly, "and, if necessary, send away the member of the household, for I am a motherless girl, and I have come from a long way off to be with you."

"I don't quite think I can do that, Flower. There are many good mothers in England who would train you and love you, and there are many homes where you might do better than here. My own children are placed here by G.o.d himself, and I cannot turn them out. Still--what is the matter, my dear child?"

"I think you are unjust; I thought you would be so glad when I said I wanted to stay."

"So I am glad; and for the present you are here. How long you remain depends on yourself. I have no intention of sending you away at present.

I earnestly wish to keep you."

Another tap came to the study door.

"If you please, sir," said Alice, "blind Mrs. Jones is in the kitchen, and wants to know most particular if she can see you."

"How ridiculous!" said Flower, laughing.

"Show Mrs. Jones in here, Alice," said the Doctor.

His own face had grown a shade or two paler.

"Blind people often speak in that way, Flower," he said, with a certain intonation in his voice which made her regard him earnestly.

The memory of a rumor which had reached her ears with regard to the Doctor's own sight flashed before her. She stooped suddenly, and with an impulsive, pa.s.sionate gesture kissed his hand.

Outside the room David was waiting.

"Well, Flower, well?" he asked, with intense eagerness.

"I spoke to him," said Flower. "We are here on sufferance, that's all.

He is the dearest man in all the world, but he is actually afraid of me."

"You are rather fierce at times, you know, Flower. Did you tell him about--about----"

"About what, silly boy?"

"About the pa.s.sions. You know, Flower, we agreed that he had better know."

A queer steely light came into Flower's blue eyes.

"I didn't speak of them," she said. "If I said anything of that sort I'd soon be packed away. I expect he's in an awful fright about that precious Polly of his."

"But Polly is nice," interposed David.

"Oh, yes, just because she has a rather good-looking face you go over to her side. I'm not at all sure that I like her. Anyhow, I'm not going to play second fiddle to her. There now, Dave, go and play. We're here on sufferance, so be on your good behavior. As to me, you need not be the least uneasy. I wish to remain at Sleepy Hollow, so, of course, the pa.s.sions won't come. Go and play, Dave."

Firefly called across the lawn. David bounded out of the open window, and Flower went slowly up to her own room.

There came a lovely day toward the end of October; St. Martin's summer was abroad, and the children, with the Doctor's permission, had arranged to take a long expedition across one of the southern moors in search of late blackberries. They took their dinner with them, and George, the under-gardener, accompanied the little party for protection. Nurse elected, as usual, to stay at home with baby, for nothing would induce her to allow this treasured little mortal out of her own keeping; but the Doctor promised, if possible, to join the children at Troublous Times Castle at two o'clock for dinner. This old ruin was at the extreme corner of one of the great commons, and was a very favorite resort for picnics, as it still contained the remains of a fine old banqueting-hall, where in stormy or uncertain weather a certain amount of shelter could be secured.

The children started off early, in capital spirits. A light wind was blowing; the sky was almost cloudless. The tints of late autumn were still abroad in great glory, and the young faces looked fresh, careless, and happy.

Just at the last moment, as they were leaving the house, an idea darted through Polly's brain.

"Let's have Maggie," she said. "I'll go round by the village and fetch her. She would enjoy coming with us so much, and it would take off her terror of the moor. Do you know, Helen, she is such a silly thing that she has been quite in a state of alarm ever since the day we went to the hermit's hut. I won't be a moment running to fetch Mag; do let's have her. Firefly, you can come with me."

Maggie, who now resided with her mother, not having yet found another situation--for Mrs. Power had absolutely declined to have her back in the kitchen--was a favorite with all the children. They were pleased with Polly's proposal, and a chorus of "Yes, by all means, let's have Maggie!" rose in the air.

Flower was standing a little apart; she wore a dark green close-fitting cloth dress; on her graceful golden head was a small green velvet cap.

She was picking a late rose to pieces, and waiting for the others with a look of languid indifference on her face. Now she roused herself, and asked in a slightly weary voice:

"Who is Maggie?"

"Maggie?" responded Helen, "she was our kitchen-maid; we are all very fond of her--Polly especially."

"Fond of a kitchen-maid? I don't suppose you mean that, Helen," said Flower. "A kitchen-maid's only a servant."

"I certainly mean it," said Helen, with a little warmth. "I am more or less fond of all our servants, and Maggie used to be a special favorite."